


Ring-a My Phone

by notlucy



Series: Give a Little, Take a Little [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, BDSM Scene, Correcting Behavior, Dirty Talk, Dom Steve Rogers, Established Relationship, Fantasizing, Fledgling Feelings, M/M, Masturbation, Orgasm Control, Phone Sex, Sex Work, Steve's Rules of Order, Sub Bucky Barnes, or something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-20 01:20:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17612738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notlucy/pseuds/notlucy
Summary: What precisely constitutes a business arrangement? Also: is Steve flirting with him? Bucky's pretty sure Steve is flirting with him.





	Ring-a My Phone

**Author's Note:**

> This is a continuation of the universe established in _[practice my maintenance](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17531096)_ , though this one can be read on its own if you just want to skip to the smutty, smutty phone sex.

There is making a business arrangement in the heat of the moment, and then there is the act of arranging the business.

The former proves easier than the latter.

To begin: Steve makes the offer.

Bucky accepts.

They share an awkward handshake and half-hug on the sidewalk.

Steve promises he will be in touch.

Bucky takes him at his word and heads home with both sets of cheeks burning. Jerks himself off in the shower, Steve’s name on his lips when he comes.

He spends fifteen post-shower minutes twisting his body to and fro in front of the steam-covered bathroom mirror, admiring Steve's handiwork. His ass is a deep crimson, some spots darker than others, a red stain spreading all the way down to mid-thigh.

Throwing caution to the wind, he snaps several pictures at an awkward angle before deciding he needs to invest in a full-length mirror for his bedroom.

The worst of the redness fades by the second day, which he spends taking full advantage of his standing desk. By the third, he is still tender, bruises yellowing in the worst spots, while the lighter welts have disappeared altogether.

That evening, as he packs for a long weekend away, he debates how much sitting on a plane the next morning is going to hurt. Maybe he should have planned things better, but he hadn’t been using his _thinking_ brain when he’d agreed to Steve’s proposed date and time for their encounter.

Truthfully, he doesn’t even want to be taking the trip, but it’s a pre-planned long weekend, and his parents have paid for the plane ticket. They have also dropped a hefty guilt trip on him and his sister, Becca, with a bunch of “gosh, kids, what’s the _point_ of retiring to the beach if you two aren’t gonna visit?”

And, okay, he's fine with the beach. Excited, even. But his dad wants to take him paddle boarding, and he's not sure he can deal with anyone using the word ‘paddle' in his presence right now.

Oh, and speaking of paddles? Steve still hasn’t contacted him.

So much for business.

Though, that’s not totally fair. Steve had said he would be in touch, but he hadn’t said when. Bucky has to have faith that he is a man of his word. Probably he’s busy, is all.

The next morning, Bucky steps inside a Super Shuttle that is already occupied by four strangers. It smells like a foot. By the time he arrives at LaGuardia, he is in a bad mood, which isn’t helped by long security lines and a delayed flight. Things don’t improve when he finally makes it onto the plane only to discover that the squashy seat cushion is lumpy in _precisely_ the wrong place, pressing on the big bruise lingering on his left thigh. Pain isn’t so much fun out of context, and every time he is irritated by that radiating remnant, he wants to scream.

Annoyed, he puts his phone on airplane mode, closes his eyes, and tries to sleep without much success. Several hours later, they make a bumpy landing, and he grunts in frustration before switching his phone back over. He texts his dad to let him know they've landed before checking his email.

There is a message from Steve.

Fucking of _course_ there is.

He nearly drops the phone, causing the woman next to him to huff like she’s so aggrieved.

“Sorry,” he says—even though he doesn’t have anything to be sorry for—before opening the message and scanning it.

 

> _Hey genius,_
> 
> _Been kinda busy, should have checked in sooner. Sorry about that. I’ve been thinking through the details of our arrangement. Should we get coffee tomorrow? LMK._
> 
> _-S_

 

First of all, abbreviations are obnoxious.

Second of all, _damn_ it. Of all the weekends to be out of town.

There’s no time to answer because, unlike New York City airports, this one has minimal taxiing and no jockeying for position at the gate. Once the plane rolls to a stop, people begin unbuckling their seatbelts, doing the harried oh-my-god-get-me-out-of-this-tin-can shuffle up the aisle. Then, it’s rushing through corridors, finding his parents, receiving multiple hugs from his mother alongside an, “oh, honey, you’re so thin!” His father claps him on the shoulder, awkward as ever, informing him that they are having burgers for dinner. Which Bucky supposes is his way of saying welcome.

It’s evening before he has enough alone time to respond to Steve. Sure, he could have snuck off sooner, but he’s with family for the first time since Christmas, and he doesn’t want to be rude. So he greets his sister, skips lunch, takes a dip in the ocean (where he nearly freezes his balls off, despite wearing a wetsuit, because it's not even April yet), eats dinner and plays a board game before feigning exhaustion and scooting off to the bedroom that isn’t _his,_ precisely, but is where he stays when he’s here.

“Come on, come on, come _on_ ,” he mutters as his laptop takes an age connecting to his parents’ shitty beach wifi.

Finally, he’s online, and he clicks through to the message box on the website where he can respond to Steve. Probably they need to have a better way of contacting one another.

 

> _Hi!_

 

He pauses. Backspaces on the exclamation mark.

 

> _Hi. Good to hear from you. I am actually out of town this weekend but maybe next week?_

 

He sends it, then gets ready for bed, brushing his teeth and changing before settling in with his Kindle, laptop on the nightstand. It takes him less than a page to start nodding off. The ‘ding' of a new email rouses him fifteen minutes later, Kindle fallen to the bed and a line of drool leaking from his mouth to his chin.

Super cute.

Instantly alert, he reaches for the laptop, then stops. Thinks it through.

Not Steve. It’s _not_ Steve. Steve wouldn’t write back so quickly. There’s no way. Probably it’s work, annoying him about something.

But then, if it’s work, he should check. Just in case.

He opens the laptop.

It’s Steve.

 

> _Call me when you can._

 

The message is followed by ten digits that make Bucky’s heart leap into his throat. It’s not a request, it’s an order, and he doesn’t know what to do about that except smile—a big, dopey grin spreading itself across his face as he picks up his phone and adds Steve to his contacts.

But also?

He should play it cool. Try not to seem overly eager. After all, this is business. It’s not like Steve’s gonna _know_ he waited to call.

Yes. Waiting. Solid choice.

He puts down the phone. Heads downstairs to get a glass of water. Talks to his sister for a couple of minutes. Eats one cookie, then another.

All that effort buys him ten whole minutes before he’s back in his room, holding the phone in one shaking hand and completing the call.

Steve answers on the third ring, the warmth of his voice instantly familiar. “Hey.”

“Hi. It’s um, Bucky?” Suave, Barnes. Way to slide into that nonchalance.

“I know,” Steve says, and Bucky can picture him smiling. “I don’t share this number with a lot of people.”

“Oh.” Bucky leans against his pillow. “Cool.”

“Out of town, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Where’s that, then?”

Admitting that he is visiting his parents feels profoundly dorky, but he doesn’t want to lie, so he skirts around the truth. “The beach.”

“Like, what, Long Island?”

“No, like…North Carolina?”

“Ah.” It’s hard to tell if Steve’s surprised. “How’s your ass?”

Bucky laughs sharply at the abrupt jump. “Jesus. Way to dive right in.”

“It was either that or talk about how you probably looked good in a swimsuit. Given the circumstances…”

(That’s flirting, yes? Steve doesn’t have to say anything about him looking good in any item of clothing, after all.) “Yeah. Um. You’re right.”

“So?”

“So—?”

“Your ass. How is it?”

“Oh! It’s, you know. Good? I guess?”

“You guess?”

Steve asks a lot of questions. Bucky flexes his toes. “I mean, it’s not super sore anymore? But I have a couple bad bruises.”

“Bet you do. One of ‘em’s on your thigh, right? Left side?”

Bucky’s fingers graze the spot reflexively. “Uh-huh.”

“Thought so. Next time, I’ll give you one on the other side.”

Bucky presses his knuckles into the mark and grits his teeth, wondering if Steve is always this blunt, or if Bucky’s just special. “Shit,” he says. “I um…if that’s what you want.”

“Sure do. That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”

“It is?”

“Yup,” he said. “If we’re gonna do this, we gotta set up a schedule. Regular maintenance, right?”

Bucky’s cock twitches, eager to perform, and he shoots a dirty look in its direction. “No!” he mouths silently. “Stay!”

“Bucky?” Steve prompts when he doesn’t answer.

“Right!” he says. “I um. I mean, I’m helping you out? So, like, whatever works for you. I don’t want to take up a lot of your time, though, so—”

“Let me worry about my time.”

Bucky hears something that he thinks is maybe Steve typing, so now he's picturing him sitting behind some big, mahogany desk. A CEO's desk. Or a principal's desk. Something that says he's powerful and influential and can bend people over it anytime he wants.

“Bucky?” Steve prompts again. Shit. He’s missed something.

“Uh, yes?”

“I asked if you work.”

“Oh. Yeah, I do.”

“Regular schedule, or shift work?”

“Regular. Like, weekdays? Forty hours. Salaried.”

Steve pauses. “Interesting that you came to see me on a Tuesday.”

Bucky feels himself beginning to blush. “I took a sick day,” he mutters.

“Really?” Steve sounds thrilled. “For me?”

“I…I figured I’d let you pick what worked for you, and…take the day, whichever day it was.” It wasn’t like he’d been expecting repeat engagements. One and done had been the plan. Not that he’s complaining.

"I'll bet." Steve taps a couple keys and makes a humming noise. "Still, we'll find something that works for both of us. How about Friday nights?"

Bucky frowns. That doesn’t make any sense—surely Fridays are prime, well, _everything_ fodder for a guy in Steve’s line of work.

“No good?” Steve asks when he doesn’t answer.

“It’s…I mean, it’s good for _me_. But don’t you have um…paying customers?”

“I told you to let me worry about my time,” he replies. “It won’t be every Friday, and I’m not saying I won’t have to cancel, sometimes. Or maybe you will.”

Unlikely—Bucky has friends, and he dates on occasion, but he's not exactly Mr. Social Butterfly. "That…yeah. Maybe."

“How about we aim for bi-weekly? That gives you a couple days recovery time before you’re back at work.”

Thinking of his still-sore backside, Bucky nods. “That’s good, definitely.”

“So, every other Friday, starting a week from today?” He pauses. “If you’re back in town, that is.”

“Yes!” he says before Steve’s even had the chance to finish the sentence.

“Seven o’clock?” Steve sounds like he’s laughing.

“I get off work at five.”

“So, seven?” he repeats.

Way to sound desperate, Barnes. “Seven’s great. Um, same place?”

“Yep.”

“I…thanks, Steve.”

“Not doing you a favor,” he says nonchalantly. “I’ll be bringing along a few things I want to try out.”

“Oh.” The very idea sets him squirming. “Right. All the same, it’s um…thanks. For helping me, you know. Maintain.”

Bucky hears Steve moving around again—standing up maybe. He wishes he could see him; map his face and commit it to memory in a way he hadn’t during their brief time together.

“Yeah, well,” Steve says. “Some people need a lot of maintenance, and you…” he makes a tutting sound.

What the hell does that mean? It sounds good. Warm. Pleased. But maybe he’s reading it wrong. Maybe Steve thinks he’s strange for agreeing to all of this. Maybe Bucky’s a freak among freaks and Steve’s agreeing to take him on pro bono for like…market research? That’s a thing, right?

Fuck. He’s spiraling. This had seemed like a good idea when he’d agreed to it, but now he’s not so sure. Steve probably hadn’t even been flirting with him before—Bucky’s reading too much into other people’s intentions, as usual.

“Still with me?” Steve asks, his voice an anchor.

“What?” he squeaks. “Sure. I’m here. Friday um, Friday’s good. I’ll see you then?”

Steve doesn’t say anything. Bucky hears the sound of a faucet turning on, then off, before Steve’s low laughter rolls across the line. “Aha. I’m getting the impression you think we’re done with this conversation.”

“…aren’t we?”

“No. We still got plenty to talk about. You gonna be a good boy and answer some questions for me?”

Bucky’s cock leaps to attention, doing a tumbling pass with a double twist before preening for his judging panel of internal critics. The scores are nine and above across the board (save for self-esteem, which gives him an 8.8 because hey, room for improvement). “Fuuuuh…” he manages, eloquently. “Uh. Yeah. Definitely.”

“You sure about that? Maybe you got totally awesome beach friends you gotta hang out with…”

Bucky likes that Steve thinks he is an interesting person on an interesting vacation. Considering the Scrabble tournament he left behind him, however, he’s fine where he is. “No, I turned in early. I was um, tired. So I’m in bed.”

“You are, huh?” (Okay, he’s not kidding himself: that’s a flirty tone. There’s no other way to describe it.)

“Yup.”

“What are you wearing?” It would be a cheeseball line from anyone else. And, alright, it’s still cheesy coming from Steve. Bucky’s penis doesn’t mind.

“Uh, pajamas?” So. Very. Sexy. It’s a wonder Steve doesn’t spontaneously orgasm right then and there.

“Be more descriptive, genius. I’m not paying you to half-ass answers.”

“You’re not paying me at a—”

“Bucky,” he warns.

“Right. Um. I’m wearing a t-shirt I got at a conference and like…navy blue pants?”

“What conference?”

“The uh…” he glances down, reading the writing in the dim glow of the bedside lamp. “StarkTech OmniCon 2016?”

“Sexy. Take everything off.”

“What!” He starts laughing. “No!”

“Why not?” Steve asks, and he’s laughing, too.

“Because…” Because he is in his parents’ house. Because there is a single door and a flight of stairs between him and the rest of his family. “I’ll get cold?”

“Bullshit. Take ‘em off.”

“Steve!”

“Bucky,” he says, voice gone flat like he’s amused but also like he’s not gonna be happy if forced to ask again.

Ah, fuck it. “Hang on.”

Feeling ridiculous, he sets the phone on the nightstand and sits up to take off his shirt, then shimmies out of his bottoms. He tosses them both onto an armchair before getting under the covers as a precautionary measure. The sheets are nice and cool against his skin, which is a novel sensation. He's not the type of person who sleeps in the buff, is all. Even after sex, he has a tendency to put clothes on before falling asleep.

He picks the phone up, cradling it to his ear with his right shoulder, hands optimistically free. “Okay.”

“Okay, you’re naked?”

“Yeah.”

“Perfect,” he says, and Bucky could swear he almost sounds impressed. “Are you hard?”

“Not…completely?” he offers.

“No?”

“No. I mean…mostly?”

Steve waits for a beat, and Bucky thinks he's sitting down, judging by the soft grunt he makes. "Know what I'm thinking about?"

“Uh-uh.”

“The way you looked on Tuesday. Laying over that bench. Taking everything I gave you and asking for more. You got any idea how sexy you are?”

Bucky snorts, because despite the almost-definite flirting, despite Steve’s quelling of his earlier doubts, he is still incapable of believing that anything about him could be sexy. Passable, perhaps. Cute, even. Handsome on a good day. But sexy? Nah. Sexy is for people like Steve. People who know exactly who they are and don’t spend their lives in an anxiety-fueled vortex. People who take what they want and live life without regret or self-recrimination.

“Hey.” Steve’s voice is sharp. “Don’t do that.”

“Do…what?”

“When I give you a compliment, you say thank you, and you believe it. Understand?”

“I don’t—” he frowns, because that’s a tall order. “I’ll try?”

“Fuck your try. We’ll work on it.”

“We will?”

“Sure. What’s the point of this little arrangement if not your continued improvement?”

“I guess?”

“You’re always guessing,” Steve says, before switching topics again. “I promised you the crop the next time I saw you, right?”

Probably the conversational changeabouts are a tactic. Randomness meant to keep Bucky on his toes. Focusing him on the content of the conversation. “Um. Yes.”

“We’ll do that. But I’m also thinking…” He trails off, leaving Bucky a trail of breadcrumbs to follow.

“Thinking?”

“Thinking I want to put you over my lap, at least to start.”

Bucky’s dick does a double back handspring. “…oh! Great!”

Steve laughs. “You like that?”

“Yes,” he manages, brain stuck on a loop of what it would feel like to have Steve tip him over his knee. Hold him down. Feel the warmth of his body. The roughness of his hand.

“What else do you like?” Steve presses.

“Like…fuh—“ he swallows around the triteness of the word. “Fantasies?”

“Sure.”

“Oh. Ah. I dunno.”

“No?” he says like he doesn’t believe him. “Maybe I can help. Do you need daddy to—”

“No!” Because no. “That’s…no.”

“Alright,” he teases. “No daddies. What about…huh, are you religious? A priest, maybe? Confessional? Doing your penance to get right with God? Or a coach? Maybe you got a tournament coming up. Or—”

“Headmaster,” Bucky blurts, because sure, Father Fuck-My-Face and Coach Cum-On-Me have a certain appeal, but he knows what he’s about.

There’s silence on the other end of the line. “Headmaster,” Steve says slowly, and Bucky’s cheeks flush hot. “Ohhhhh. _Now_ I get it.”

“Get what?” he asks, trying and failing to keep the defensiveness out of his voice.

“Does the paddle have _holes_ in it, Steve? Can I count the _strokes_ , please, Steve?”

“I—” He is blushing so furiously he thinks his head might fly off to relieve the pressure.  “It’s not—”

“No, it’s fantastic,” Steve says with a smile in his voice. “Good boys need help to stay good, right?”

“…right,” he manages, voice coming out a whisper.

“Got you coming to my office, looking for extra credit, and—”

Bucky misses the rest of that sentence because his mother chooses that moment to open the unlocked door. He drops the phone, yanking the covers further up his torso with one hand while the other holds his protesting prick against his stomach. "Ma!"

Winifred jumps. “Oh! Honey, I thought you’d be asleep.”

“The light’s on!”

She blinks in confusion because she is nothing if not capable of making him feel very silly. “So?”

“I…I was reading,” he stammers, not quite thinking straight. “But—”

“Your towels were in the dryer,” she says, chipper as she crosses to the adjoining bathroom door, full stack in her arms. “I figured you’d need them in the morning.”

“Why didn’t you go through Becca’s room?”

Winifred pauses. “Well, now, I guess I could have.”

“It’s…” he shakes his head. “It’s fine. Thank you.”

“Sure, baby,” she says, opening the door and stepping inside to, presumably, hang up the towels.

“Just leave them on the counter, ma,” he calls. “Don’t worry about it.”

She reemerges and gives him a funny look as she shuts the bathroom door behind her. “You okay?”

“I’m fine! Just tired.”

She squints, peering at him closely while pursing her lips. “You should wash your face,” she declares after a moment’s scrutiny. “You’ve been on an airplane.”

“Sure, ma. Thank you. I will. Uh. Goodnight. See you in the morning.”

“Night, hon,” she says, giving him one more close look before taking her leave.

The second the door shuts, Bucky dives for the phone and presses it to his ear. “Steve?”

For a moment, Bucky thinks he’s hung up. Until: “Bucky.”

“Yeah! Yeah, I’m still here! Sorry, that was—”

“Was that your _mother_?”

Fuck. “…yes.”

“Are you staying with your parents right now?”

“Yes.”

Steve starts to laugh. Really, seriously laugh. Bucky is mildly annoyed. Though, if he were Steve and not the person who had nearly been caught with his pants down, he might have found the humor in the situation.

“It’s not that funny,” he protests.

“Why didn’t you say so?” Steve manages through cackles. “Jesus, Bucky, please tell me you didn’t have your dick hanging out—”

“No! I mean. I’m under the covers. I just—”

“Oh wow. Okay. Pal. Did you—” he’s giggling now, there’s no other word for it. “I was about to dirty talk you into next week and your ma…”

“I didn’t think she’d come in!”

Steve’s still wheezing when he responds. “Does the bedroom door lock?”

“Uh yes. Yeah.”

“Get up and lock it, genius.”

Bucky doesn’t need to be told twice, hopping out of bed and going over to turn the lock. “Done,” he says.

“I’m gonna need you to paint me a picture,” Steve teases. “What’s this bedroom of yours look like?”

“Can I get back in bed first?”

“Nope. Just…hang out. By the door.”

Bucky hangs, feeling strangely vulnerable in his nudity while Steve formulates a follow-up question.

“Am I dealing with a childhood bedroom situation here?” he asks. “Squeaky twin bed and like…cool bands from the early aughts papering the walls?”

“No such luck.” He will not admit that Steve is uncomfortably close to describing the bedroom his parents had left behind in the Boerum Hill apartment where he’d grown up. “Retirement accommodations. Standard guest bedroom. Beige walls. Blue comforter.”

“Damn.” Steve clicks his tongue. “What was your ma saying about towels?”

“Oh um. She brought me some?”

“What about lotion? Got any close by?”

The sad part is, Bucky doesn’t even stop to think about whether or not this is a _good_ idea, his brain merely moves on to how quickly he can accommodate Steve’s wishes. “Probably in the bathroom?”

“Ensuite?”

“Jack and Jill,” he replies, glancing at the closed bathroom door.

“Who’s the Jill?”

“Becca. Um, that’s my sister.”

“She’s otherwise occupied?”

“I…yeah, she’s downstairs still, I think.”

“Good,” Steve says. “Put the phone down. Go in there and find some lotion, bring it back along with one of the towels, and spread that out on the bed.”

“A…why?”

“Cause you’re not gonna get jizz all over your ma’s guest bedspread. She raised you better than that.”

He bites his lip. “Steve—”

“Get going, Bucky.”

Bucky doesn’t allow himself to think about what he’s doing before tossing the phone onto the bed. He heads for the bathroom, where he finds a bottle of hotel lotion in a drawer. It’s unscented, and he’s reasonably sure he can use it on his dick without contracting some weird fungal infection. Probably. Hopefully. He picks up a towel on his way out, shaking it and laying it on the bed before sitting down and picking up the phone.

“Okay,” he breathes. “Steve?”

“I’m here. How’d you do?”

“I found…there was lotion. And I got a towel.”

“Good boy. And where are you now?”

“Sitting on my bed.”

“Did I say you could sit down?”

He springs to his feet. “No, but—”

Steve turns on what Bucky’s already begun to think of as his lecture-voice. “Aw, Bucky, I thought you were smarter than that…”

(Christ, the hectoring tone really shouldn’t be doing it for him, but life is a rich tapestry.)

“Sorry.” It is surreal: actual, genuine shame rolls through him at the thought of having disappointed Steve.

“Go ahead and grab that spot on your thigh we were talking about—the one that hurts.”

“The…what?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself, pal.”

Bucky bites his lip, hand moving to his left thigh, just below his ass, where he finds that still-so-sensitive bruise and pinches it between his thumb and forefinger. It’s not awful, but it’s not pleasant, either. “Okay,” he grits.

“Does it hurt?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Pinch it harder.”

Bucky pinches until he can’t help the whimper that escapes him, body thrumming with pain even as his cock fills further.

“I know,” Steve’s voice flows, all comfort and kindness now that Bucky’s hurting for him. “Just a little correction, that’s all. You can handle that, can’t you?”

“Yeah,” he whispers. Twists his fingers until he wants to scream. “Sorry. Sorry, Steve—”

“Wish I could see you, pretty eyes. Taking that so well…you can let go now.”

Bucky does, wincing as blood begins to run back to the tender spot, heart racing in the aftermath of even that small gesture of compliance. “Thanks,” he says, unbidden.

“Anytime,” Steve replies. “Go ahead and lie down for me, flat on your back.”

“Okay,” he agrees, then positions himself so the towel is beneath his lower half and his head is reclined against the pillow. “I’m…there.”

“Still hard?”

“Uh, yes,” he admits.

“You know, for someone who claims not to be a masochist, you sure don’t mind hurting.”

“Oh.” He frowns. “It’s not…I mean, I dunno.”

Steve exhales. “Bullshit. Saying you don’t know is just an excuse for not wanting to tell me.”

"Fuck." How can Steve read his mind across all those miles? He's not wrong, though. Bucky's spent a lifetime preoccupied with thoughts of what he is and what he isn't. Why he wants what he wants, and what that says about him. "Sorry."

“Try again.”

"It's…" he takes a few seconds to consider. "The stuff I like isn't what I think of when I think of a masochist."

“What do you think of?”

“Um, like someone who wants to get really tortured? Medieval shit—needles and knives and blood and stuff.”

Steve laughs a little. “That’s one definition, yeah. There are others. I gotta be honest with you, though, Bucky—you took more on Tuesday than a lot of self-respecting masochists I know.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah.”

“I didn’t like the cane, though,” he protests. That had been the worst hurt, and he had hated it.

“Not everyone likes everything,” Steve counters. “Most people aren’t doing this for the type of pain they hate—they’re doing it for the pain that gets them off. Which—” he pauses, laughing again. “I’m pretty sure you did.”

“I uh—”

“Part of the fun for me is figuring out what types of pain work for you,” he continues. “That’s what gets _me_ off.”

“It does?” he asks, unable to help himself.

“Sure. I got my preferences, too.”

“Yeah, but like…me _specifically_?” he presses, chancing it. Needing to know if Steve meant the general ‘you’ or something more.

“ _Specifically_ , he says,” Steve scoffs. “Jesus H, kid. Go ahead and spread your legs for me—bent knees, feet as wide apart as you can get them.”

“Huh?”

“Chop chop, smart boy.”

“Shit,” he mutters, shifting his position. “Okay”

“Are your knees together or apart?”

“Uh. Together.”

“Then you’re not where I want you. Spread your feet further and let your knees fall open—imagine you’re at the doctor and she stuck you in stirrups.”

Oh, hey there, weird new fantasy. Every ounce of blood in Bucky’s body rushes south as he obeys, widening his stance and planting his feet firmly against the mattress. It’s exposing. Embarrassing, even in an empty room. He wonders if maybe this is one of Steve’s things—if Steve had been the one to arrange the spanking bench to spread him wide.

Weirdly, intuiting this possible fact makes him feel closer to Steve. Cottoning on to a kink that belongs more to him than to Bucky. Something he chooses for his own pleasure instead of at the whim of a client. Business associate. Whatever.

“Uh. Done?” he says once he’s settled.

“How’s it feel?”

“…weird?”

“Be more descriptive.”

“It’s…” he exhales. “I don’t…spend a lot of time being naked? It’s not when I’m my most relaxed. So being like this is just. Interesting. A little scary.”

“Bad?”

“No. It’s…” he bites his lip. “I like that you like it, I think?”

“Very good, Bucky,” Steve praises. “Got that lotion?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Go ahead and lube up—whichever hand you usually use is fine.”

Bucky needs both hands for the job, so he's once again forced to rely on his shoulder to keep the phone in place. After unscrewing the cap, he pours a liberal amount of lotion into his right palm, which has always been his faithful companion when it comes to handjobs, masturbatory or otherwise.

“Ready.”

“Stroke yourself,” Steve says. “Slowly. Don’t close your legs, and don’t do anything with your other hand yet.”

Licking his lips, Bucky wraps his fist around his prick, eliciting a pleasant, if familiar sensation. “Okay,” he says, setting a languid rhythm. “I’m um…doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Suh…touching myself?”

“Touching yourself,” Steve repeats. “How is it that you can do everything we did on Tuesday, but dirty talk has you stammering?”

“Is that…I mean, that’s a rhetorical question, right?” he asks, cheeks undoubtedly crimson.

Steve laughs. “Sure. Hey, let’s go over the rules, alright?”

“Uh.” There’s that tonal whiplash again. “Sure.”

“Number one: you answer every question I ask you honestly. Got it?”

“Yeah, got it.”

“Number two, you keep quiet. I don’t need you freaking out your ma—she sounds like a real nice lady.”

Bucky huffs out a laugh, running his thumb over the head of his prick. “Sure, but…please stop bringing up my mother?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve says. “I’ll do my best. Number three: you don’t come without permission. Ask me when you’re close. Understood?”

Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no. Because, the thing is, Bucky’s _fetish_ is spanking, but that doesn’t mean he’s oblivious to other kinks. Doesn’t mean his thoughts don’t occasionally turn to notions of endless edging. Cock cages and orgasm control. Being allowed pleasure only at the whim of another person.

“Bucky,” Steve warns.

“Yes!” he says, only it comes out like a moan.

“Not fast enough,” Steve chides. “Let go of your dick, grab your balls.”

“But—“

“ _Bucky_.” He sounds annoyed.

Bucky drops his cock like it’s burning him, reaching down to take hold of his sack instead. “Okay—”

“Squeeze ‘til it hurts.”

Jesus. Bucky closes his eyes. Squeezes.

At first, it's fine. Similar to the correction with the bruise. Pressure, some discomfort, and then there is the first flash of genuine pain. A bright light bursting behind his eyes as he tightens his grip and whines, low in his throat.

“Harder,” Steve says.

“Can’t—“ he protests.

“Yeah, you can,” he says. “You gotta stop questioning me, alright? You’re smart, but you got some bad habits.”

“Sorry,” he exhales, hand clamping down harder, the muscles in his thighs tensing.

"That's it," Steve coaxes. "You're such a good boy, helping me out. If I were there, I'd do it for you. Get out the crop and smack you in the balls instead—"

“Oh _fuck_.” His fist clenches reflexively as he visualizes it. Steve standing over him, wielding the crop. Bucky bound tight. Held open. Terrified and desperate for it. Every bit of vulnerability and dignity stripped from him as Steve takes him apart, piece by piece. “Hurts,” he whimpers.

“Harder,” is Steve’s only response.

Bucky tries, tears springing to his eyes as he sucks in a breath. It's agony—self-inflicted agony. Which means he has a choice: he could let go. Pretend. Disobey. Steve would never know.

Except, Bucky would probably tell him. Confess his sins and bare his soul before begging for retribution because isn’t that the point of all this? Isn’t that why he is giving himself over to this person he hardly knows?

It is an eternity before Steve speaks. Bucky's legs are trembling, and he feels a little queasy by the time that bit of benevolence comes down the line. "You can let go now, sweetheart."

Bucky releases himself, knees instinctively drawing together. Steve’s voice is quick to stop him. “Don’t hide, Bucky. I know you want to, but that’s not helping anyone.”

What the fuck does that even mean? Bucky doesn’t know. Doesn’t care. He wants to touch himself. Wants to cradle his balls and self-soothe. Wants to be rid of this particular pain even as he craves more of a different sort.

Letting out a deep breath, he parts his shaking legs. Steadies his mind as he waits for further instruction.

“You can touch yourself again,” Steve says eventually.

“S-sure,” he stammers, exhaling a shaky breath as he takes himself in hand, establishing a slow, even rhythm.

“We never did finish our conversation.”

“We didn’t?”

“The stuff your ma interrupted—the headmaster thing. What’s that all about?”

"I—" he nearly says he doesn't know, then remembers the earlier admonishment and tries again. "I um. It's this thing where I'm a good student. But um. Maybe there's incentives? For being the best?"

“Incentives?”

“If, because the…like, if I got paddled, it’s not because I’m in trouble, but because it’s helping me do better—”

“That’s important for you, huh? Being good. Having someone notice.”

“Uhhh,” he agrees, eyes closing.

“You’d make a picture, spread over a desk. I’d start you with a warm up and then…gosh, I guess twelve with the paddle?”

Bucky grunts, beginning to stroke faster.

“Maybe fifteen,” Steve continues. “A real brave boy could take fifteen. How you doing?”

“Guh-hood. Feels good.”

“Bet it does. Wish I were there to help you out…”

“Me, too. Wanna—” He bites back the innocent desire, suddenly shy.

“Go on,” Steve prompts, just like Bucky knew he would.

“I wanna kiss you.”

“Kiss me. Huh. How sock hop of you,” Steve teases. “Maybe you can earn a kiss on Friday.”

“Please,” he pants. “So much. I was…when you…and I…”

“Slow down,” Steve says. “Full sentences.”

“Before,” Bucky manages, hips lifting from the mattress, fucking his fist with every stroke. “When we were…before, together. I wanted you to touch me.”

“Oh, I know,” Steve laughs. “You made that _very_ clear. And sweetheart, if I were there right now? I’d be all over you, and you’d be tied to the headboard.”

Bucky’s not about to point out that the bed doesn’t have a headboard. Instead, he jerks himself faster, wondering if the slick sounds are audible on the other end of the line.

“I’d spread you out,” Steve continues. “Shove a plug up your ass. Maybe stick some clothespins on your balls.”

A strangled whine escapes Bucky at the very idea.

“Such a fuckin’ masochist,” Steve rumbles. “Pinch your nipple for me, handsome.”

“I—kay.” Bucky’s free hand comes up to roll his left nipple between his fingers, sending a jolt of pleasure right to the tips of his toes. He’s too fucking sensitive. Always has been.

“Load you up with clothespins. Your nipples, your balls, your thighs. Then I’d use the crop to pop them off, one by one. Bet you’d scream—”

“Fuck _me_ ,” he moans, heat gathering in his taut thighs.

“I could keep you busy for _days_. Lock you up and take you out whenever I wanted to play with you. How about that?”

"Yes!" he gasps, because Steve's words are hitting something primal and twisted and dark within him. Something that sets forth a torrent of babbling, needy desire. "I'd be so good. I'd be such a good boy, and you could put me in my cage, and—"

“I didn’t say _cage_ ,” Steve laughs.

Bucky should be chagrined about that little slip-up, but he can’t find it in him to acknowledge anything beyond the impending release being brought on by the ministrations of his rapidly moving fist.

“But sure,” Steve says, picking up that Bucky’s not much for talking at the moment. “You can have a cage. I’ll get you a collar and a leash, too, pretty eyes. Let you crawl for me. Beg real nice. How’d you like that?”

“Shit,” he gasps. “I’m gonna come. Please—”

“Nope. Hands off.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses, releasing his cock and slumping against the mattress. “Fuck, _fuck_.”

“Aw,” Steve clucks. “Puppy’s frustrated, huh?”

“Yes,” Bucky whines, too muddled and horny to decide whether or not he likes that particular epithet.

“That’s a _very_ good boy, though, asking my permission.”

Warmth suffuses his body and he squirms, dick leaving a line of slick across his belly. Why hello there, happy hormones, welcome to the party.

“M’a good boy,” he echoes, coherence proving difficult.

“You’re fascinating,” Steve says with genuine fondness. “You’re gonna be fun to play with.”

“Be whatever you want,” he mutters, truly believing that he’d crawl through a muddy minefield covered in barbed wire if Steve was waiting on the other side with a kind word and a kiss.

“I know, Buck,” he says gently. “You still close?”

“Yeah.”

“Start again.”

Bucky nearly sobs in relief, gripping his prick and wasting no time in setting a relentless pace. It’s playing with fire, but he feels too good to care.

“Gotta say, you inspire my creative side,” Steve says. “Mostly cause you cry so pretty.”

“Ohh…” Bucky whines, finding his fist a poor substitute for Steve’s touch. Granted, he’s never actually felt Steve’s touch, but he imagines that it’s as perfect as the rest of him. Strong and warm and unyielding and— “Guh!”

Shit, he’s close again.

“Don’t let up,” Steve murmurs. “Can I tell you something, though?”

“Nnnn?”

“It really pisses me off that Tuesday was the _first_ time you ever got spanked. Fuckin' waste of a perfect ass is what that is."

Bucky makes a noise that might generously be interpreted as an assent, balls tightening and dick thickening as a sign of the inevitable.

“Guess that means I gotta make up for—”

“P-please,” he gasps. “Sorry. Interrupted. But—”

“Go on,” Steve says, so Bucky figures he’s not in trouble. “Please what?”

"Please, c'n I come?"

"You know," Steve muses because Steve's an _asshole._ Bucky nearly screams in frustration. “If I were there, I’d fuck with your orgasm. Ruin it right as it’s happening. Then you’d really have something to cry about.”

Bucky grunts, toes curling against the comforter, knowing he has maybe three seconds before he’ll be past the point of no return. “Puh—” is all he can manage, heart thumping in his ears.

 “Yeah, go on,” Steve says dismissively.

Bucky comes with a bitten back shout, remembering the rule about the proximity of his parents. Spunk coats his stomach and his hand, with a couple ropey spurts even making it as far as his chest. That’s not a usual phenomenon, and honestly? This is one of the better solo orgasms he’s ever had. (Although, does phone sex count as solo? He’s not sure. Eh. Semantics.)

“Oh,” Steve purrs in his ear. “So quiet for me this time, sweetness. Can’t wait to get you yelling.”

Bucky grunts, hand stilling on his prick. “Yeah,” he agrees, orgasmic bliss fading as some blood begins to make its way back to his brain.

“Don’t stop stroking,” Steve says, as if he could tell Bucky was just about to let go of his prick. “Make it last.”

Bucky shudders—he’s always been overly sensitive after orgasm, and touching himself for too long in the afterglow can border on painful. Which, yeah, that’s probably the point. Still, he whimpers in protest, wriggling on the bed as he continues to obey.

“Is that driving you nuts?” Steve teases after maybe a minute has passed.

Bucky, who is torn between wanting to cut his dick off or turning over and rutting against the mattress like the dog that he is, can barely manage a “yes!”

“Did you make a mess?”

“ _Yes_.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Um…?” He frowns, more focused on the irritation between his legs than on anything Steve has to say.

Steve sighs, disappointed. “And here I was gonna let you clean up, but now I gotta correct your behavior again.”

“You’re…what?”

“You’re gonna let the spunk dry where it fell,” Steve says, casual as he pleases. “No cleaning up tonight.”

Gross. Gross! Bucky already feels itchy.

“Know why?” Steve prompts.

“No?”

“Because you forgot to thank me for letting you come.”

Shit. That _had_ been rude of him. “Sorry,” he says, neck growing hot as he twitches, still palming his prick. “I…thank you.”

“For what?”

“For…letting me come.”

“You’re very welcome. You’re still in trouble, but you can stop touching yourself now.”

"Oh, thank fuck," he mutters, dropping his dick and wiping his hand on his stomach, only to realize that maybe he should have cleaned it on the towel instead.

“Next time,” Steve says idly. “Thank me before I have to remind you.”

“I will,” Bucky promises.

“You can put your pajamas back on when you’re ready, and…is there a laundry room?”

“Yes?”

“Man, luxury living,” he says. “Alright, so you’re gonna go throw the towel in the wash.”

“I didn’t really get any—”

"Hey," his voice is sharp. "Your ma cleaned that towel, and then you rubbed yourself all over it. So you're gonna throw it in the washer, and she's not gonna have to lift a finger.

“I—right.”

“That’s better,” Steve says, and Bucky thinks he’s smiling. “Once you do that, you can go to bed, but no cleaning yourself up until that towel’s washed and dried.”

Which means Bucky will either need to set an alarm to get up in the middle of the night and put the towel in the dryer, or he’ll have to sit around feeling crusty and gross while he waits for it to dry the next day. Neither option is appealing, but he thinks he’s going to go with the former, namely because he can already imagine the mess that will be his chest hair come morning.

(The idea that he could just disobey Steve and use a _different_ towel flashes across his mind, but he banishes the thought almost instantaneously.)

“Yeah. Definitely. No problem.”

“Other than that? Enjoy the rest of your weekend. And don’t be late on Friday.”

It’s an abrupt dismissal—not dissimilar to the one Bucky had experienced during their first encounter. As if Steve doesn’t know how to bridge the gap between play and their fledgling…friendship? Partnership? It’s hard to say.

“I’ll be there early,” he assures him. “Um. Thank you. Again.”

“You’re welcome.” Steve pauses. “There’s ah…one more thing.”

That seems about right. “…uh-huh?”

“You’re not allowed to come between now and Friday night. As in, no touching yourself at all outside of the necessary shit. Got it?”

Bucky swallows, staring down at his softened dick, which has never been shy about asserting itself first thing in the morning. This week is going to suck. “Um. Sure.”

“Good boy,” Steve says. “Goodnight.”

He ends the call before Bucky can return the sentiment.

It takes twenty whole minutes for Bucky’s anxiety to spike when he realizes he has no idea whether or not Steve had gotten any pleasure out of that at all.

**Author's Note:**

> This fills the G2 Kink Bingo Square for phone sex, naturally. Y'all talked me into continuing this universe with your overwhelming enthusiasm for _practice my maintenance_. I hope it lives up to the promise set by that first fic, while deepening the story just a smidge. (Gentle reminder that Steve is working from Bucky's checklist of will-dos and won't-dos from the first story.) I'm calling this the _Give a Little, Take a Little_ 'verse, and I plan to continue it beyond Kink Bingo, so subscribe to me or to the series if you're interested in more. I can't guarantee when I'll update, but I can guarantee they will always be smutty and leading towards the implied ending of _pmm_ wherein the boys are very much in love.
> 
> I'm open to kink suggestions, too. Can't say with certainty that I'll use all of them, but considering this is one giant id-verse, I might as well take other ids into account.
> 
> Thank you to [awwtopsy](https://awwtopsy.tumblr.com) for another quick turnaround on the beta. You can find me on Tumblr at [notlucy](https://notlucy.tumblr.com). I'm also [notlucysays](https://twitter.com/notlucysays) on Twitter, [notlucy](https://notlucy.dreamwidth.org/) on Dreamwidth, and [notlucy](https://www.pillowfort.io/notlucy) on Pillowfort.


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